Daylight Dies
by Screaming Ferret
Summary: All fairytales come to an end, and not always in the manner we choose... A Starling fic about revenge.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I know I have a few unfinished projects, but I have to get this out of my system first. Boo shucks to you (you know who you are) who said I can't write a serious Lecterfic. Enjoy ;)

**Disclaimer:** All characters herein belong to Thomas Harris. No coplyright infringement intended,

Daylight Dies

When it came, it was without warning.

The doctor spun her in his arms, the skirts of her gown flaring out behind her. A tiny crack, like a twig breaking in the distance and the doctor's head snapped back in a spray of gore.

He took an eternity to fall, slipping away from her arms, a smile still upon his lips.

Instincts honed by training and circumstance took over, and Starling dived for the floor, rolling away from the body. A bullet pinged off against the while stone slabs where she had lately been standing, spraying up a cloud of mica dust and chips. She saw everything, slow motion and as clear as crystal.

Men in grey fatigues, one below amidst the begonias, another moved through the lengthening shadows towards the pool.

_Snipers?_

Where there were two, there would be more.

Starling wriggled on her belly and elbows, ignoring the effect upon her exquisite gown. She wriggled towards the doctor who lay broken on the terrace, his arm flung out at an awkward angle. Another bullet shattered one of the open French doors, showering the room within in broken glass.

They were shooting blind, Starling knew. They couldn't possibly see her from the ground.

Starling reached her objective. He was still warm, still lifelike save for the small entry wound on his right temple. She didn't look closer, knowing all too well what she would see if she did. Her hands flew over his chest, slipping into the breast pocket of his blooded jacket. Nothing.

Footsteps now, and the sound of voices. Were they in the house, too?

The inside pocket held results, and with a feral smile that her former comrades in the FBI would not have recognised, Starling crawled on hands and knees towards the doors. Congealing blood and dirt caked the lower skirts of her dress where she had crouched over Lecter, now she encountered broken glass.

The voices were closer, deep and masculine. And American.

Starling's eyes narrowed. They were not within the master bedroom yet. Ignoring the splinters of glass that sent icy slivers of pain shooting up her hands and knees, she completed her crawl for cover. Gaining the safety of the master bedroom, out of the line of sight of those in the garden below, Starling swiftly and silently took up a position by the bedroom door. It was ajar.

Her heart thundered in her chest, the blood rushing in her ears. Not fear, no, but a furious anger. Later, that would turn to grief, but not yet.

She risked a quick glance through the gap in the door. Movement on the stairs.

She slowed her breathing, trying to control the racing of her heart. He had never been troubled by nerves or an excess of adrenaline, but she had never truly mastered the trick.

A pair of balaclava masked men advanced down the hallway, checking each dark panelled door.

Starling's lips drew back, revealing her teeth in unconscious predatory anticipation. She could not know, but the expression on her face would have frightened most. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Dr Lecter's most coldly calculating smile.

The rustle of cloth, the quiet tread of boots on thick carpet, the quiet breathing of stealthy men. Starling could hear it all.

A floorboard creaked just outside the bedroom door, and a booted foot kicked it open. It bounced back off the panelled walls, and as the man stepped in, Starling reacted. She surged forwards from the opposite side of the doorframe. With her left forearm, she pushed the man's assault rifle away. Her right hand flashed out in an arc of silver. He went down, gurgling and kicking, and Starling snatched up his gun. She put two bullets into his partner before he even had time to register that is had all gone terribly wrong indeed.

Arterial spray coated her face and hands and breasts, her gown was ruined and two men twitched out the last of their life on the priceless Persian carpet.

Starling wiped the blood from her face. Its copper tang coated her lips and she licked them clean. To taste her enemy only fuelled her anger, but she had to keep a clear head.

A quick search of the bodies revealed no identification, but Starling took a 9mm Glock from the second corpse. It was a serviceable sidearm, blocky and reliable. It was also fully loaded. Dr Lecter's Harpy, she slipped into the bodice of her gown.

She had to leave the house. Voices downstairs, louder than before. They must have heard the bullets.

Starling kicked off her heels and headed for the terrace.

Outside, twilight was falling and Dr Lecter's corpse was just a dark shape on the pale stone. She didn't look at it as she silently crossed the terrace. It wasn't him any more, he was gone.

No bullets twanged off the stonework, no shapes moved in the garden below, that she could see. She had to risk it.

Starling swung over the stone balustrade, her bare feet scrabbling for purchase against the stone. There was a light trellis below the terrace, not strong enough to bear her weight for long, but long enough to get to the ground. Her feet found wood and living plants, and she began to climb down.

The flimsy construction creaked and swayed out from the wall. Quickly, Starling descended in a shower of broken twigs and dead leaves. The last few feet, she jumped and landed in a crouch amongst the clematis.

Down in the garden away from the house lights the darkness was nearly complete. Keeping to the bushes, Starling crept down the side of the great house,. There was a postern gate in the garden wall that gave access to a narrow side street behind the property. Ancient ivy almost hid it from sight, and she hoped the invaders did not know it was there.

By the pool now, and she skirted the pool house, wary of the floodlight.

Her bare feet were cold and wet, cut by glass and coated in congealed blood , so she made more noise than she should have as she came to a thicket of ornamental Japanese cherry trees. A shadow beyond moved, and Starling ducked down in the dark as gunshots boomed out across the lawn. Swearing under her breath, she searched the area over the sights of her Glock.

_There._ A man-shape, the slightest clink of metal against metal. She fired once, twice and with a feminine cry of pain, the figure crashed down into the leaf mulch and dirt.

Starling didn't hesitate. She hurled herself into the thicket, past the gnarled trunks of the elderly trees, over the body on the ground. She rather thought something warm tried to seize her ankle, but she kicked out hard and carried on.

The garden wall loomed up out of the darkness, its ancient brickwork and ghostly grey ivy a welcome sight. Hauling gnarled and twisted ropes of ivy away from the crumbling bricks, she quickly uncovered the door. A loose brick beside it provided a convenient hiding place for the key, and Starling felt a rush of relief that she didn't expect when she found it still there.

The lock was stiff. Gritting her teeth, she forced the rusty key round, and the gate creaked open. Starling slipped through the cobwebbed aparture and into the night beyond. She did not know where she would go, or what she would do, but she did know that someone, somewhere was going to intimately regret the events of the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Another short one. I'm not convinced I managed to achieve the effect I wanted here. Writing about this has proven to be harder than I suspected, even knowing something of what she is going through. So, tell me what you think :)

**Disclaimer:** All belongs to Harris. No copyright infringement intended.

Daylight Dies pt 2

Starling abandoned her stolen car a couple of streets away from her bolt hole, a tiny apartment in a less than salubrious part of town. Finding a long raincoat on the backseat was a bonus, and she buttoned it over her bloodstained evening gown, and tucked the Glock into an inner pocket. There was nothing she could do about her feet, and the harsh concrete and tarmac of the pavements ground dirt into her grazes and glass cuts. The sharp retorts of pain from her soles kept her focused.

The car journey had provided unwelcome time for reflection, away from the immediate danger. The blurring neon lights and amber streetlamps of the city's roads flowed together in an almost hypnotic pattern of light and colour. She was aware of herself driving, aware of other traffic and road users, but separate from herself. She watched herself from behind her own eyes, but another made her operate the vehicle. Then it came, the stunning realisation that _something_ was missing.

The stranger driving the car with her body kept the vehicle on the road, as Starling crumpled inside, a black hole the result of a wound too deep and too sudden to heal. She felt it like a phantom limb, a missing piece of her that should be there. Now, that piece was gone and it left a vacuum, promising to draw the rest of her in after it.

But Clarice Starling was strong. She knew that, as well as he did. The car had not ploughed into a wall or lamp post, and Starling herself hobbled on foot the rest of the way to her destination. She used the pain of her feet as rungs on a ladder of anger, climbing it steadily to keep out of that gaping nothingness that threatened to consume her.

People passed her by. She ignored them as unworthy of her attention on this most momentous day. She had experienced loss and grief many times before, but it still felt odd to her that everyday life carries on for the rest of the world, even if your world has ended. She moved through the evening crowds, and was alone.

The shabby apartment block that housed her bolt hole was a welcome sight. Starling paused across the road, looking up and down it for any sign of wrongness. She could not spot anything that looked out of place, so crossing the road quickly, she slipped in with a group of students and chose to take the stairs rather than the elderly lift.

Gaining the safety of her apartment, she locked, bolted and put the chain across the door. She did not seriously think that the place would be compromised - she rented it completely separately from Dr Lecter, under another identity and without his knowledge. Starling was old enough, and wise and cynical enough to know that fairytales do come to an end, and it had seemed sensible to maintain a back door, a way out.

It was quiet and it was dark. She flicked on the kitchen light and left the door open, allowing a pool of light to spill out into the living room. The grotesque shadows and deeper darkness of the far corners suited Starling's mood perfectly. She was aware of a growing shadow in herself, and she knew that turning the lights on would not drive it away.

She stood in the middle of the living room, arms hanging limply at her sides. She just didn't know what to do. The question revolved in her mind - _what next?_ It hung there, but every time she reached for it, it slipped away. She could not even think of the next ten minutes, let alone the next day, two days, three days, week, months…

_Years._

She trembled like a delicate aspen in a high wind. She sank slowly to the grotty carpet, curled up against the base of the sofa, folded her arms around her knees.

The sound that came from her could not ever be described as grief, or entirely so. It was a snarl reminiscent of an angry cat, a breathless kind of sob of the sort that comes when the sense of one's own uselessness washes over one, and it was a high note of pure mourning, a keen of absolute despair.

She shook with sobs, burying her face in her arms. Around her, life continued. She could hear people without, going about their nightly business. Cars, sirens, voices raised in pleasure or anger. Life continued, but for her it seemed to have reached the end. She stood before a chasm, and the yawning void there was so _tempting_…

It was too easy to give in.

Starling raised her head and glared with ferocious intensity at an unoffending bookcase. Strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, damp with tears. Her puffy, red eyes took on a calculating look. Grief was in every line of her body, but her every fibre burned with a rage so cold it took her breath away. It was so cold it felt clean, _pure_. It was awesome in its clarity, and she suddenly felt that she could do anything.

Dr Lecter had always felt that artificial morality, that imposed by society, was something that restricted a person from becoming a whole, complete human being by the very fact that some experiences and feelings were deemed to be outside of society's accepted morals, and therefore inhuman and monstrous. He had contended that if a human could do or feel something, then obviously that action or feeling was an essential part of being human. In the time she had spent with Dr Lecter, Starling had learned that the only set of values worth valuing were those that meant something personally to you. She had discarded those that were useless to her, or false. Obedience and subservience to an establishment, loyalty to those who hate you, a hypocritical attitude to the value of human life, all these she had found unworthy. So what does a person do, who has lost everything that mattered, and who no longer plays by the rules?

Clarice Starling smiled, and it was a frightening sight.

Pain was a constant in the world. It was always there, and, like shit, some people had more of it than others. Some people had an unfair amount, she mused. And some people didn't have nearly enough. Some people didn't know what pain was. Some people had _no idea_.

Starling considered it her bound duty to educate them. People, covert operatives with no identification, had burst into her home and caused her pain of the sort that crippled and broke the weak. They had taken the life of the man who had shown her what life truly was, shared with her what she had been missing all those years. They had killed one of the few people that she gave a damn about in this mad world.

The thought snuck in; what would Dr Lecter do?

She was astonished to hear herself laugh, although it was brittle and unamused.

Why, he would redistribute that unfair load of pain, of course. Redistribute it slowly and, well, _painfully_.

The thought gave her a boost of savage glee, of confidence that perhaps she could do something after all. She knew it would not bring him back, but it was something. She knew she could do it, and what was more, she knew she would enjoy it too.

That thought didn't frighten her, as it once would have done. She was different now, different even from the creature Dr Lecter had wrought. How different, though, remained to be seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Now we come to the meat of the story ;)

**Disclaimer:** All the characters you recognise are the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement intended.

Daylight Dies, pt 3

Policemen milled about outside the great manor house. Squad cars and an ambulance blocked the sweeping gravel drive, and white suited forensics teams combed the front garden.

Starling drew her tatty coat about herself, shrinking back into the over large hood. It had not taken much work to acquire the essentials of her disguise, a trip to a charity shop had done it. She wrinkled her nose again at the unpleasant musty smell emanating from the ancient knitted cardigan beneath the coat. The costume was that of the common or garden crazy bag lady, a frequent sight on the streets of every city.

She seized hold of the shopping trolley she had purloined from a nearby supermarket, and began to push it, mumbling to herself, down the pavement outside the drive. The trolley rustled and clanked, half full of tins, bits of junk and old clothing.

Keeping her head down, she approached the gate. Two policemen stood next to it, one smoking a cigarette. Starling stilled her own muttering to better hear their conversation.

'Two, three people at least,' one of them was saying in Spanish.

'Three murders and no bodies,' the other said, and passed his companion the rest of his cigarette. 'Christ, you see it all in this job.'

'Hey!' The first policeman had spotted Starling. 'Get back, this is a crime scene.' He came forward briskly to move Starling away.

She drew back with an incoherent stream of babbling. The man stared at her, and shrugged. Turning back to his companion, Starling distinctly heard him say 'crazy old bat,' before heading back towards the house.

Clattering away with the trolley, Starling reflected on what she had heard. It was exactly as she had suspected. They had cleaned up after themselves, in a manner of speaking. She wondered if they'd taken the time to clean properly after removing the bodies. Probably not. Any DNA test the forensic team ran would undoubtedly set alarm bells ringing, and it was therefore wise for her to leave the area promptly.

The bodies themselves were probably on their way back to America right now, if they hadn't got there already. For she was certain that her enemies in this matter were her former countrymen and comrades. They were definitely American, or at least one was. It just remained to determine who.

The number one suspect was, of course, the F.B.I. However, Starling knew that didn't rule out other groups - a private endeavour, perhaps. Hell, even the C.I.A… She was well aware of her former government's penchant for covert ops abroad. And when they went wrong… People never learnt.

She carried on down the road, away from the multitude of emergency vehicles. Here, there were few cars parked on the road. Most of the houses here had large driveways and garages. However, a battered plasterer's van had elected to park by the side of the road, within sight of her house.

Starling had marked it earlier this morning, when she had rode past on the bus. There was still one man sat in the driver's seat, and he was still reading a newspaper. The vehicle was parked on her side of the road, close to a thick privet hedge. Gearing up her unintelligible muttering, she forced the trolley in the gap between the hedge and the van. She kept her head down and pushed hard. Twigs and leaves from the hedge flew, and there was a tinny screech as the corner of the shopping trolley scratched deeply into the side of the van. The driver stuck his head out of the window.

'Hey! What the fuck are you doing?'

Starling ignored him and carried on. The man tried to open the driver's door, but the trolley was in the way. She slipped her hand under a noisome bundle of rags.

The driver stuck his government-issue crew cut head out of the window once more, and Starling brought her hand up out of the trolley.

His eyes widened with shock, and Starling saw him go for something under the dash. She shot him the face. There was a gentle _pop_, and an acrid smell of gun smoke and burnt plastic. Starling ripped the now useless Dr Pepper bottle off the barrel of her pistol and tossed it back in the trolley. She gave that item a healthy kick forwards, and it cleared the driver's door.

The driver's body tried to topple out when she hauled the door open. She seized him by the shoulders and shoved him over, ignoring the spatter of teeth, blood, skull fragments and grey matter that coated the seat and now her coat.

She climbed in and was about to shut the door when a small sound from the back of the van came to her ears.

A shark-like grin crossed her face. It was just as she suspected.

Her hand darted to her inside pocket, fingers seeking the familiar shape of a hypodermic. She found it just as a tousled blond head poked between the front seats. He was a young man, and he just gaped at her, mouth hanging open.

He had the look of a techie about him, Starling thought. He did not have the reactions she did, though. She seized a great handful of shaggy blond hair and hauled his head forward. Yelling, he tried to pull away, but Starling was a lot stronger then she looked. She plunged the needle into his neck, close to his collar bone and pushed the syringe down. It snapped off as he jerked back, but she didn't care. That amount of ketamine would work fast. He'd be no use to himself for some time. She wasn't a huge fan of playing doctor, but she'd had to improvise, and she needed information.

There was a thud from the back as the young man's legs gave way and he descended into the otherworldly pit addicts of the stuff called 'the k-hole'. She hoped he'd enjoy his bad trip.

Shutting the van door, she started the engine. It rumbled to life, and Starling pulled away. Her plan was simple - park up in the anonymous safety of a busy local multi-storey car park and see what it was she had caught.

Twenty minutes later, she climbed into the back of the van. The tech guy lay sprawled on the floor, amidst a clutter of plasterer's tools and overalls. For a second she thought that perhaps she had made a mistake, but her trained eye spotted the blocky shape of a powerful communications set half hidden under some papers. There was a blinking red light. She considered it for a moment, then reached over and switched it off.

The young man moaned, twitching on the oily floor.

Starling smiled grimly to herself as she ferreted around in the junk and came up with a sturdy length of wood, a hammer and some nails.

She knelt on the floor by the techie and gently turned him on his back, sliding the length of wood under his shoulders. It was short, so she bent his arms at the elbow, raising his hands up level with his shoulders, and placed them on the plank.

Taking a large nail from a handy tub of the things, Starling positioned the point over the palm of his hand. His eyes flickered open, and for a second Starling though he was coming out of the k-hole already. However, he just stared blankly at her for a second or two, before they closed again. In a way, she found that disappointing.

With a powerful swing of the hammer, Starling drove the nail through the soft meat of the operative's hand and into the wood. She heard the fragile bones crunch beneath the heavy blow, and blood trickled up from the wide head of the nail.

His scream was pathetic, a lost little whimper as he almost came out of his trip, but not quite. He tossed his head back and forth, aware but unaware and incapable of comprehending what was happening to him. She bashed another nail through the wrist of the same hand, just to be sure, then repeated the procedure with the other. By the time she finished with the hammer, he seemed to be coming out of it. That was a shame, Starling reflected. For him, anyway. She hadn't even started on his feet yet.

She tossed the hammer into a corner, and took the opportunity to have a quick look out of the front windows. There were plenty of shoppers going to and fro, but nobody seemed to be paying her particular attention. Nevertheless, there was a corpse slumped in the passenger seat with half its head missing. She shoved it further down towards the floor and grabbed an overall from a hook to sling over the body. As she did so, her hand touched something familiar. Gunmetal. Starling pushed the other filthy overalls aside, and her eyebrows shot up. They were loaded for bear, by the looks of it. Two MP5s with maglights and extended clips, a bullpup shotgun and a tranquiliser gun reposed in a rack hidden behind the greasy boiler suits.

She picked up the bullpup and turned it over in her hands. It was an ugly thing, squat and brutal, but superbly well designed for its role as a close range assault weapon. She had never been a fan of shotguns, and these days she preferred the simple elegance of a knife even over her usual pistol. Dr Lecter's influence extended even to her choice of weapons.

Thinking of the doctor again caused her throat to tighten, and angrily she tried to push the thought away. She had to focus, and thinking about him was not going to help her. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder what was going to be left of her once all this was over. Was the doctor's influence on her so great that she had lost herself?

No. She had found herself, that was it. She had found herself, and now she had been cut loose, cast out. It was these men who were responsible, not Dr Lecter. With him, she knew herself. He had helped her, not held her back.

A louder moan from the man on the floor drew her out of unwelcome introspection. The tech guy had come round. His eyes opened slowly, his pupils massive. His head lolled to one side, and he saw his hand, brutally nailed to a piece of wood. The moan grew in volume and panic. He turned his head to look at his other hand, and his chest heaved.

Starling stepped back just in time, as the young man vomited copiously down his t-shirt. Annoyed with both him and herself, she kicked him in the ribs. There was a primitive kind of satisfaction in offering simple violence to a bound enemy. It had taken the doctor to get past her sense of fair play and teach her that.

After all, nobody else played fair. Why should she?

It was good that he was awake. She had kind of hoped that he would be for the next stage of the procedure. There was a roll of duct tape in a toolbox, and Starling tore a length off. The tech guy's eyes bulged and he wiggled his head from side to side, trying to avoid her hands. The movement aggravated the wounds in his palms and wrists, and he cried out.

'Please…'

It was the first time he had spoken. The ketamine must truly be wearing off now, she mused as she got the tape over his mouth. She had chosen the drug because of its ease of purchase, and because a good dose of it rendered most people insensible. One of the effects of a smaller amount, or the stuff wearing off, was increased garrulity. She counted on that, too.

There was a small saw in the toolbox. To add to the effect, it was rusty. Starling took it and knelt beside the unfortunate young man. His muffled incoherencies washed over her as though it were the sound of some small animal in pain. In a happier time, she would have put him out of his misery. Since she was _un_happy, however…

Starling tugged off his trainers and his greasy socks. He tried to pull his feet away, but the drug still in his system made that difficult. She seized a foot, and held it firmly between her knees. She slid the saw under his ankle, and located by feel his Achilles tendon.

His eyes widened in horror as he realised her intent. Watching his face, meeting his eyes, she slowly and cruelly drew the blade back across the tendon. She felt wet trickle through her fingers - tendon fluid and blood pooled on the dirty floor. His scream failed to emerge from the duct tape over his mouth, but his agony was evident.

She dropped the now useless appendage, and grabbed the other. He didn't even find it within himself to resist, and Starling contemptuously sawed through his other tendon. It parted with a soft sound, she almost fancied it snapped. When she rose to her feet, she could see the soft white threads of cord hanging out of the vicious tears in the back of his leg. They looked like the ends of overcooked spaghetti.

His eyes rolled up into his head and his frantic breathing slowed as he passed out. Satisfied, she threw a dirty sheet over him. He was crippled, incapable of going anywhere. She intended to question him at her leisure, but first she had to leave town.

The plan was beautifully simple. She preferred it that way - more room for improvisation. There were people she needed to consult, but the means for that were all in her head anyway. She never needed to go far to talk to Crawford these days.

Climbing back into the front seat, Starling started the engine and pulled out into the stream of traffic leaving the multi-storey.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** A friendly warning: if you object to violence and torture, you don't want to read this fic. It's **nasty** from here on out. If, on the other hand, you don't mind a bit of gore, read on.

**Disclaimer:** The characters you recognise are the intellectual property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement intended.

Daylight Dies, pt 4

_The basement corridor was narrow and badly-lit. This was not a place she came to often, and she strode briskly towards the door at the end, knowing the clicking of her heels on the concrete floor announced her._

_She paused at the threshold, raising her hand to tap respectfully on the half-open door._

_'Come in, Starling,' a familiar voice pre-empted the action._

_She pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, looking about her as she did so. Even here, she was wary._

_The room within was as poorly lit as the institutional corridor outside. A single desk lamp illuminated a cluttered desk and the careworn man sat there. Darkness swelled outside the lamp's light, almost threatening to engulf the lean form of Jack Crawford._

_He looked up as she entered, and she gave him a wan smile. He did not return it._

_Things were different from her last visit. Her eyes travelled across the crime scene photographs and notes pinned to the walls. Usually, they remained constant, a reminder of Buffalo Bill and the situation that had changed her life so much. Sometimes, they reflected other actions, other crimes. Today, she looked at a large photograph of herself, and building plans of her former home in Buenos Aires._

_Crawford half turned in his seat, following her gaze._

_'I guess you're not popular at the moment, Starling,' he said. There was a note of amusement in his voice._

_She snorted derisively. 'When have I ever been popular, Mr Crawford?'_

_He acknowledged the truth of that with a half-nod of his silver head, and indicated that she should take a seat._

_She pulled the battered chair out, and moved a stack of books._

_Crawford looked at her and sighed. 'You do have a habit,' he said, 'of getting in over your head. My fault, that.'_

_Starling chuckled. 'Don't blame yourself, Mr Crawford. I can't help what I am.' She sat._

_'And what is that?' He cocked his head on one side, inquisitively awaiting an answer._

_It was a question she had been forced to ask herself many times, especially of late. It was a question to which she had not yet been able to provide a satisfactory answer._

_'I don't think there's a word for it.' She said it so softly that he almost missed it._

_Jack Crawford leaned back in his chair. She noticed a silver gleam between his fingers, watched him flip it back and forth through his fingers like a coin._

_'You're not him, Starling. I hope you know that. Whatever it is you're going to do, you need to remember who you are.'_

_She was almost surprised at that. He did not sound as though he were condoning her actions, but he did not sound as though he were condemning them either. It was almost as though he… understood._

_Well, perhaps she shouldn't be too surprised really, considering the circumstances of the conversation. She just hadn't expected ambivalence._

_'I know who I am, Mr Crawford. I've known since…' She let the sentence trail off. He winced._

_She knew who she was now, although it had taken her years to realise, and the man himself to educate her. In a way, in her heart, she was Lecter. It was not something she could explain or externalise, it was a truth that existed only inside her. She was inextricably Hannibal, as he was undoubtedly Clarice. That was why she was wary here, why there were places that she dared not go, not yet. She didn't think she could stand to wander in here and find blank walls where there had once been doors to another mind. Or worse, if she could go there and walk in the empty vaults of his mind, knowing that it was now nothing more than an elegant museum._

_Sometimes she thought she was going insane._

_Crawford gave a resigned kind of sigh, and tossed the scrap of silver onto the desk._

_'What's that?' she asked before it stopped spinning and came to rest against a mug with a tinny clang._

_'The strength of your convictions,' he said._

_It was a silver Sherriff's badge, with a rosette-shaped bullet hole through the middle. She picked it up, closed her hand around it tightly._

_'Mr Crawford… you surprise me sometimes.'_

_He laughed, a harsh sound. 'Surprise myself, too.'_

_Starling considered the badge. She knew what he meant - if it meant that much to her, she should do it. She should hold true to herself. When she looked up, he recoiled from something in her gaze._

_'Who?'_

_Crawford shrugged. 'I'd suspect F.B.I, but maybe a joint task force. Those goons could be Special Forces…'_

_Starling frowned. 'I'm not interested in the little men, Mr Crawford,' she said._

_'Then… I'd say there's not many with the authority to set this up.'_

_'Noonan.' It was not a question._

_'Possibly.' Crawford shrugged again. 'Those hyenas at Justice have had knives out for you for years, have you thought about that?'_

_'I have, but I keep coming back to Director Noonan.' Starling played with the badge. 'It's a feeling I've got, Mr Crawford.'_

_Crawford leaned forward, concern on his lined face. 'Starling, if you go after Noonan, if you get him, they will hunt you to the ends of the earth and back again.'_

_She smiled. 'Don't you worry about me, Mr Crawford.'_

The night air was cool and invigorating. When Starling came out of her reverie, she realised she had a crick in her neck from staring at the stars for too long. They winked at her, untouchable in the velvet blackness. Familiar and comforting.

She rose to her feet and stretched with the elegance of a dancer. Behind her, the pale shape of the van bulked large like a monster in the night.

She had chosen this spot with care, a narrow mountain road overlooking the main highway. That way, she could see vehicles on the road below, and know as soon as one turned onto her track. Most importantly, this spot was isolated. It was private.

She opened the rear door of the van and climbed inside, hauling the door shut after her. It was dark inside until she lit the workman's lamp she had found under a seat. She hung it from the gun rack and took a seat on the toolbox.

Johnny Techie, as she had named him, had kind of awkwardly curled into a ball in the corner, his useless lower legs and plank of wood causing him to look like a peculiar puppet.

Starling heartlessly grabbed him by the ankles and hauled him into the middle of the floor. His whimper of protest was lost behind the duct-tape over his mouth.

She put her finger to her lips, and he quietened instantly, watching her with terror in his hazel eyes.

'You know who I am.'

He nodded, or tried to.

'Very good.' She smiled at him, and he closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew was pain as she seized a foot and callously dug her nails into the jagged wound on the back of his heel. His eyes snapped open, bulging and watering.

'You will look at me,' she hissed. 'You will not close your eyes when I am speaking to you. Do you understand?'

He nodded frantically.

'Good.' She spoke softly, knowing the psychological value of calmness in situations like this. 'I am going to take the tape off your mouth so that we can talk.'

He made a glad sound, interrupting her. Her fingertips found the edge of his wound, and pulled. He arched off the ground in pain, but his terror-clouded eyes stayed open.

'You do _not_ speak unless I ask you a question. You _will_ answer my questions. You will_ not_ speak of anything else.' Starling paused then, considered him closely. An intelligent adversary would find ways to turn her instructions against her, therefore… 'You _will_ tell me of any pertinent information that you have, even if I do not ask. If I think you are holding out on me, I'll kill you. Do you understand?'

He nodded again, eagerness in his eyes. She hoped it was eagerness to please. Reaching over, she ripped the tape off his mouth. It came away with a substantial amount of bum fluff and skin from his lips. His whimper was pathetic. Starling had the suspicion that she had here a broken man. It was all to the good, and it helped her treat him with contempt.

'Who do you work for?'

The young man licked his lips nervously, wincing at the pain of torn flesh. 'I'm an F.B.I. agent. They'll be looking - '

He got no further as a smiling Clarice Starling palmed a pair of wire-cutters and held them up in front of his face. Without speaking, she set the blades against his little toe.

He squealed in agony as she casually cut off the digit.

'You will answer my questions. I'm not interested in what they will or will not do to me. You have,' and she paused for effect, as though counting, 'nine more toes. That's nine mistakes, then I start on your balls.'

'Okay…' he sobbed, his voice shaking.

'Now… how many of you are still here?' She needed to know how large the task force was, needed to know if they still hunted her here.

'There… there was twelve of us,' he said, speaking fast. He had a pleasant, breathy voice although it was currently soaked in pain and fear. 'You killed…' he paused, trying to remember.

'Three,' she said flatly. 'I killed three. I have you. That makes four. What of the other eight?'

'You shot Mapp.'

Starling froze, and he saw it.

_Mapp?_ Anger warred with shock and a sudden pain. She flashed for a moment on Mapp's broad, brown face and friendly smile. She had been the woman in the garden? She hadn't expected that, although it made sense. Mapp, out of every agent they could have sent, knew her best. Ardelia Mapp, her friend.

It was with a growing sense of betrayal that she leaned forward and brandished the wire cutters again. 'You're lying.' She knew he wasn't, he was too scared to, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it of her friend.

He shook his head frantically, with a breathless sob. 'I'm not, I'm not. She was in command…'

Starling knew her feelings were becoming irrational. It made perfect sense for the Bureau to send Mapp, she just couldn't reconcile that fact with her friendship with the woman. Not given what Mapp knew, what Starling had written to her about.

'Mapp went back, with two others,' he said in a rush, fearful of her anger and eager to please. She let him talk. 'They took the body, the bodies.'

'Very good,' she told him, injecting praise into her tone. Her mind whirled, a storm of red and black. She fancied she could taste blood on her lips again. That left six to hunt her here. She wasn't concerned about that now, though.

'How did you find us?'

He drew a ragged breath in. 'An anonymous tip-off about a year ago. We followed it up.'

'And…?' Starling placed another toe between the sharp blades of the wire cutters. 'Think, now.'

'Please…' he cried, suddenly in tears. 'I've got a daughter. I don't want to die…'

Slowly, she forced the blades shut. He screamed sharply in agony, as with a sickening crunch, his big toe parted from his foot. Blood trickled over her hands, pooled on the floor. He sobbed, gasping in shock and pain.

'You should have thought of that, before you took this assignment.' Starling had to work hard to keep her tone light. His words had struck home harder than he realised. It was essential that she act as promised, that she show no weakness. She held the image of the Sherriff's badge in the forefront of her mind.

'I was a lamb too,' she spat, suddenly furious. 'And you _killed_ the one who saved me.'

Horror and confusion were writ large on his face. He had no idea what she meant, except that she was lost to Lecter, as if she had never been a champion of justice and law at all. She saw in his face the knowledge of her true nature, and he was terrified.

He wasn't the only one.

'How did you follow it up?' She demanded, attacking the big toe of his other foot. 'How… Did… You… _Find… Us?_' With each ground out syllable, she increased the pressure until the blades had crushed through skin, tendon and muscle to grate against the bone itself.

'The high-end items list,' he screamed, long and loud. 'We just applied it to Buenos Aires. _Please!_'

She let loose a harsh bark of laughter that rang round the van with distinct tones of unamusement. He stared at her through watering eyes, confused.

The high-end purchase list. She hadn't even thought that could be it. Hoist by her own petard indeed.

'Thank you,' she said, releasing his foot. 'You have been very helpful.' She tossed the wire cutters away, and they clanged into the junk heaped in the corner.

'Are you going to let me go?'

She looked at him, and realised that it was a question to which he already knew the answer.

'I can't.'

He began to beg then, and Starling deliberately tuned him out. The sound of his voice washed over her, and as far as she was concerned it was just noise, and irritating noise at that.

Rising to her feet, she opened the toolbox she had been sitting on. Earlier, while looking through the things in the van, she had found an industrial nail gun, the sort used by plasterers to hang plasterboards.

It looked and felt appropriately brutal in her hand. His noise increased in volume, and she likened it to the screeching of a badly tuned engine or the wail of a siren, remarkable for a second, then just part of the background.

With this, she was sending a message. And the message was simple. _Don't fuck with me._

Starling bent over him, meeting his wide, bulging eyes with her own icy blue ones. She pressed the barrel of the tool into the soft flesh under his chin, and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

There several sharp_ thunks_, and the tips of a couple of nails even shot out proud of the top of his head. His eyes rolled back into his skull, the white orbs filling with blood. There was a strong smell of urine and faeces. Personally, she was surprised he hadn't shit himself before.

She threw open the back doors and kicked and shoved the corpse of the late tech agent out onto the narrow mountain road. Letting them find it was half the fun.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Back in the USA...

**Disclaimer:** The characters herein belong to Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement intended.

Daylight Dies pt 5

The small cluster of buildings had an abandoned air to them. Clarice Starling parked her pickup in front of the farm cottage. A light rain misted the windscreen, and she sat for a moment, gazing at the empty farmyard.

Dr Lecter owned this place, under one of his many aliases. She had decided, on her flight out from Brazil to Canada, that it made the perfect base of operations for what she had planned here in America. There was no water or power, and she had not had them reconnected. She didn't intend to be here for long, and a jerrycan of water and a log fire would do well enough.

Leaving the warm, dry cab of her Dodge Ram, she went round to the bed and lowered the tailgate. In the back was her supply of water, a large sack of charcoal, a small bag of groceries and a battered grey kitbag containing the few personal effects she had with her. These were nothing more than clothes purchased in Toronto two days before, and her various passports and papers. She slung the bag strap over her shoulder, and hauled the food and jerrycan out. The charcoal could stay where it was for the time being.

She had to pick the lock on the door. She had no idea where the doctor kept the keys to the place, or even if there were any anymore. She knew he hadn't been here in years.

Inside in the narrow hallway, there was a strong smell of damp. She put the water down and shut the door, when a gentle _thud_ from somewhere within the house seized her attention. Her hand went to her hip and came up with her gun, a brand new Colt .45 'Government' model she had bought in Wal-Mart yesterday. It was popular with law enforcement across the country, and was a very common weapon.

She ditched the bag and moved cautiously to the next room. It proved to be the living room, its furniture draped in old sheets that were yellowing with age. It was clear of threats, and gave access to the small, slate floored kitchen and the back stairs. She noted a broken pane in the smaller of the kitchen windows. Dry, dead leaves and dirt had blown in and scattered themselves over the floor. It occurred to her that perhaps the sound she had heard was just the wind disturbing something. The sky outside was a heavy copper-grey, laden with the threat of storms. The wind was definitely getting up, she could see the almost bare branches of the trees outside bending under its force.

It was darker on the stairs, away from the windows. She stepped quietly, conscious of the sound of her breathing, and the soft whisper of her trainers on the damp, ancient carpet.

Ahead of her on the landing, there was a set of dusty velvet drapes half drawn across the mullioned window. As she advanced, it twitched. Starling forced herself to relax her grip on her weapon, reminding herself of the minute amount of pressure needed to squeeze the trigger and fire it. She preferred a hair-trigger, and the young man at the gun store had performed the modification with only a slightly raised eyebrow at her instruction.

The curtain twitched again, and Starling hauled it aside. A scruffy mongrel tabby cat regarded her from the floor, and hissed. Three small heads popped up from behind the mother cat and stared at Starling with the curiosity only kittens possess. One mewled.

She dropped the curtain again with a relieved laugh. No doubt the mother had got in through the broken window downstairs, and had decided that the house made the perfect place to raise her litter.

The rest of the house was apparently free of livestock, although there were old signs of rats and mice. The cats probably did well here, she thought. She left them to their own devices, and investigated the huddle of outbuildings. These consisted of nothing more than a broken-down cowshed and a brick built shed in much better repair. There was a padlock and chain on the latter.

She shot the lock off, the sound startling sleepy sparrows from their roosts under the eaves. It was dark inside, there were no windows. She got a flashlight out from the glove compartment of her truck, and switched it on. The shed was not, as she had originally thought, full of junk. Instead, it was concrete and tiles, dusty but otherwise quite clinical. A channel ran down one side of the floor, terminating in a small grated drain. There was a wash basin in one corner, and in the centre, a dusty steel table. She recognised its type instantly, and could not suppress the small shiver that ran down her spine. There were no signs of use, but she _felt_ him here, much to her surprise. Even his cell in the asylum had not preserved any sense of his presence.

The possibilities inherent in this dark room held her attention for a moment or two. As she played the flashlight around the corners, she withdrew into herself, considering. This was a very unexpected find, and one that she had half a mind to make use of.

A rumble of thunder drew her from contemplation of his hobbies, and she shut the door and wrapped the chain around the handle.

The tumble down cowshed next door housed the junk she had expected to find – an untidy collection of old tools, petrol cans, an elderly barbeque and a stack of old car tyres. There was a heap of dry logs by the entrance, and she selected an armful of the least rotten and carried them back to the house.

Lighting the fire gave an instantly more cheerful aspect to the dingy little sitting room. Starling pulled the dusty sheet off of the sofa and threw it in a corner. The ancient leather couch creaked alarmingly as she sat down with her sandwiches and a thermos. She thought for a moment that it might give way, but it was merely protesting use after years of neglect. The warm glow of the fire cast great shadows behind and around her, but the warmth and cheery crackling was welcome. It was only mid afternoon, and almost dark. Outside, the rain rattled hard against the windows.

Thunder rolled, and a bolt of lightning arced in the sky.

Starling raised her head from the arm of the old couch, blinking sleep away. The fire had gone out.

Lightning illuminated the room again, and Starling rose to her feet. Absently, she realised that she wore a long black dress rather than the chequered shirt and jeans she had arrived in. She did not find her change in apparel concerning, nor yet the fact that the windows she approached were high and gothic in appearance. They were not the quaint, mullioned farmhouse windows of the cottage.

She leant against the sill, watching the heavens tear themselves apart in dramatic fury outside. The storm whipped the trees up into a frenzy, the wind howling through the branches and scattering the remaining autumn leaves. The sound was ghostly, an unearthly moaning that would have frightened some.

She watched the storm, glad to be inside. She was herself all right, but not herself, and she knew what it was that she watched. A bolt of lightning hit a tree, and it exploded into furious red flame, toppling amongst its fellows and sending tongues of fire racing into the dense wood.

The shadows grew behind and around her once more. There was a chill in the air, and she drew her arms about herself. Outside, the wind screamed. It was nearly a human sound, and she fancied that she could almost make out words.

Suddenly weary, Starling turned from the window. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw a dark figure next to the fireplace. It moved, just slightly, and inclined its head.

She stumbled forward, almost tripping over her long black gown, hand raised in entreaty.

Harsh white light tore the sky in two once more, and she saw there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

Thunder rolled. Starling opened her eyes, aware of discomfort. The fire had gone out and she was cold. She shivered, and was relieved to realise that she wore jeans and a shirt again. The dream was a shockingly vivid memory, and she found herself scanning the room for shadowy figures. Then she scolded herself for wishful thinking. She had not been sleeping well at all these last few days, and her dreams, such as they were, were rapidly becoming... haunted.

Her watch told her it was just gone six o'clock in the evening. She sat up, and felt around for the thermos. Finding it, she drained the last of the lukewarm coffee. It was time to go to work.

The vagaries of the weather kept her on her toes during the half hour drive into Baltimore, the wind tugging at her powerful truck and the rain almost obscuring the view at times.

She parked up opposite a well-kept apartment block, and sat and waited.

It was almost seven o'clock when her quarry hove into view, bundled up in a blue raincoat. Starling waited for him to pass her car, which he did with his head down against the driving rain. She slipped out of the cab, reaching into her leather jacket.

He fumbled with his keys at the front door. She came up behind him, the wind and rain masking the sound of her footsteps. He was a big man, powerfully built and no doubt very strong. He had dislocated Dr Lecter's shoulder once, at the asylum. She wasn't frightened of him, though. Especially not when she had a silenced pistol in her hand.

She pressed the barrel firmly against his spine.

'Hello Barney,' she said.

The orderly froze in the act of opening the door. He said nothing, but she knew he knew who she was.

'It's wet out here, shall we go inside?'

Barney raised his hands up slightly, so she could see them. 'Sure... Miss Starling.'

She couldn't help but smile at his innate courtesy. She_ liked_ Barney, which was why she devoutly hoped that he would not try anything stupid tonight.

She followed him down the hall to his apartment door. When he unlocked it, he waited for her instructions.

'Keep your hands where I can see them, and sit down on the couch,' she said.

He nodded, and entered the sitting room, Starling close behind. While Barney sat, his hands conspicuously on his knees, Starling glanced around. It was more or less the same as she remembered from her previous visit, but there was, she thought, a hint of a woman's touch in the new curtains and the vase of flowers on the table. Her nose detected a hint of perfume.

'You've got a girlfriend,' she observed.

Barney shifted uncomfortably. 'I haven't done anything to you,' he said.

Starling regarded him closely. There was no hint of guilt there, no sign of a lie. 'I know you haven't,' she said after a moment. 'I'm sorry about the gun, but needs must.' She spun a hard backed chair around and straddled it, facing him. 'I need your help, Barney. If you help me, I promise you'll never see me again.'

Barney raised an eyebrow. 'Your friend came round once. She threatened me too. You don't need the gun, Miss Starling. I'm not going to try anything.' He chuckled, showing his teeth. 'I'm not an idiot.'

'I know you're not,' she said. She knew the news hadn't been broken to the general public yet, and had wondered why. 'Barney...' It was suddenly almost impossible to say, and her throat closed up.

Barney waited, patient as granite.

'Barney, he's dead.'

He stared at her, a frown appearing on his broad forehead. 'Dead?' She was gratified to hear actual, honest grief in his voice. 'How?'

She told him, and when she had finished, he shook himself like a dog coming out of water. 'Clarice... I'm real sorry.'

She knew he meant it, and that more than anything made her lower the gun.

'You said you wanted help,' Barney said. He offered her a tentative smile. 'I don't know what kind of help I can be.'

'You still work at the hospital, don't you?' she asked.

He nodded. 'Yep.'

'Good.' She reached into her jacket and produced a folded piece of paper. She held it out.

The orderly took it, opened it and studied it for a moment. Another frown graced his forehead. 'Atvian and Haldol? Pancuronium?'

'You can get them, can't you?'

'Ye-_es_.' He looked as though he was about to ask a question, then shrugged. 'I don't want to know, do I?'

Starling favoured him with a cold smile. 'No,' she said.

He looked at her. 'Miss Starling, what will you do for me?'

She laughed at that, genuinely amused. 'I 'preciate your candour, Barney. I can pay you. Lots.'

Barney considered the offer. 'Okay,' he said. 'Tomorrow, midday, at the staff entrance of the hospital. If you're not there, I'll assume the deal's off.'

Starling smiled, and this time it was with warmth. 'Thank you, Barney.' She rose, and he kept very still until she was at the door.

'I knew,' he said, 'when he killed Miggs for you. Between you, there was something unique.' He stopped, shook his head. 'It doesn't feel... it feels strange, knowing he's not out there anymore.'

'Yeah.' Starling opened the door. 'I'll see you, Barney.'

He gave her a sad smile. 'See you, Clarice.'


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This chapter should make some people a little happier with me ;)

**Disclaimer:** The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.

Daylight Dies, pt 6

The storm was steadily worsening as Starling drove back to the farm. The roads were virtually empty, and she was forced to take it slowly. The truck's bright headlights illuminated leaves and branches torn off the trees, whirling in the vicious gusts of wind. The weather was treacherous – she saw more than one vehicle abandoned by the roadside, their occupants forced to take shelter in roadside motels. Her Dodge stuck to the road, its powerful engine and wide tyres working to her advantage.

Overall, she was satisfied with the evening's work. She had been prepared for things to go badly, it was a relief that Barney had chosen to co-operate. She didn't think he would betray her trust – the man had more sense than that. Still, she would have to be careful tomorrow when she went to meet with him.

It was also a revelation that Ardelia had been to see him, and she wondered whether she had gone of her own accord, or because her superiors had asked her. Her sense of betrayal had not faded. Ardelia knew what her life had been so far, knew that she had found happiness and home with Hannibal Lecter, and knowing that, had chosen to deprive Starling of those things that had made her feel more human than she ever had before. She had chosen the path of order over friendship, and Starling herself found that difficult to understand. She tried to put herself in Ardelia's position, and wondered whether she would make the same choice. But however she worded it in her mind, the answer was always 'no.'

At last, the farmyard came into view and Starling parked up close to the cottage. The rain lashed down, and she was soaked through the instant she got out of the vehicle. Once again, she picked the front door lock and let herself in.

A small shadow ran away from her as she entered the darkened living room. Ignoring the curious kitten, Starling found matches and the kindling, and got the fire going again. She changed out of her wet shirt and jeans, into similar shabby clothing. It had seemed practical to avoid the sort of boutiques and shops she had become accustomed to shopping at, in favour of more workday, utilitarian items.

She picked at the remainder of her lunch, but only out of the knowledge that food was necessary, rather than any real desire to eat. The good doctor, she knew, would have a fit if he could see the sort of meals she had been eating – or not – these last few days.

It was pitch black outside, seeming even darker because of the explosive regularity of the lightning. Little rustles and scuffling in the skirting boards and walls indicated that the cottage was well inhabited after all, and she heard the sounds of successful mouse hunting upstairs. Not hungry herself, she pulled the meat out of her lunchtime sub sandwich and left it in the kitchen for the cats.

Starling piled more wood on the fire and banked it well with ash, a trick she was surprised she remembered from her childhood. Stretching out on the sofa, she tried to ignore the howling wind and scurrying rodents. She needed sleep, but like her appetite, deep sleep seemed to have deserted her. She often woke at night now, reaching out to find him, only to remember that he was not there. Sometimes she thought she heard screaming or saw dark figures, but the dreams usually faded before she awoke.

She lay awake for a long while, staring at the play of flickering lights and shadows the fire cast on the rough ceiling. She thought a great deal about Director Noonan and her plans for him. They were, for the most part, plans that she had worked out on the long flight to Canada. The fine details may vary in execution, but she knew what it was she was going to do.

The fact that she didn't even know for certain if Noonan was personally responsible, or even the highest authority responsible, had become irrelevant to her. He had become a symbol of all that she hated, and of those that had robbed her of all that she loved. That he might not have had anything to do with it other than signing a form or two did not matter any more. She had made the judgement, and intended to carry out the sentence. It was the grand gesture she was going for, theatrical and macabre.

Starling shifted restlessly on the dusty old couch, its ancient springs creaking like a ship under sail. She knew, as the Crawford in her memory palace had pointed out, that they would expend no effort in hunting her down if she was successful, or even if she wasn't. In her darkest moments, she counted on that. What was the point, she asked herself, of living as a shadow, as half a person? Then her natural resilience would scoff and she would pick herself up and put some music on, sing along, try to smile. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

The rain drumming on the window slowly lulled her into sleep, aided by the warmth of the fire.

_The sofa's springs groaned and depressed under the weight of another, and she became aware of a presence beside her. She didn't open her eyes, afraid that if she did, he would vanish. Instead, she feigned sleep, keeping her breathing even. A light touch on her cheek nearly caused her to give the game away, but she held still as warm fingertips trailed slowly along her jaw line, tucking a strand of escaped hair back behind her ear. The warmth of his closeness spread through her, and she relaxed with a happy sigh._

_There was a soft chuckle, and the springs creaked again as he leant in close. Warm breath tickled her ear and sent delighted shivers shooting down her spine._

_'You can open your eyes, Clarice,' he whispered._

_It was the first time he had spoken to her and the fear that he would vanish the instant she acknowledged his presence intensified. She made a small sound of discontent._

_The feel of lips against the soft skin of her throat made her eyes snap open, and he leant back, his maroon eyes catching the firelight and gleaming with wicked amusement._

_'__You of all people ought to know by now that ignoring me is not going to make me go away,' he said, watching her._

_Starling stared right back. You're not real,' she said softly, but her hand crept into his even so._

_Dr Lecter smiled at that. 'Clarice, just because we having this conversation in your head, in your sleep,__ does not make it any less valid__ or real.'_

_She had to laugh. 'I think I'm going insane,' she said._

_'Sanity is relative,' he observed. 'And often over-rated, I think. People like you and I, Clarice, we live in our heads. What goes on up here,' and he tapped his own broad forehead, 'is just a relevant as what goes on in the outside world, and with just as great a consequence.'_

_Starling hauled herself up into something approximating a sitting position. __His hand found her knee and began to lightly trace patterns on it. She suddenly found it rather hard to keep her thoughts on __track. 'Hannibal, are you trying to convince me that talking to you in my dreams is in some way going to make up for the fact that...' Even now, she couldn't say it._

_He could, though. 'That I'm dead? __Of course not.__ But you didn't think I'd ever truly leave you, did you?' He grinned. 'I don't give up_ that _easily, after all...'_

_'True.' She allowed him to pull her close, and laid her head against his chest, content to listen to his heartbeat. It was undeniable proof that he was, at least for the here and now, alive._

_'My little Starling,' he murmured. 'So much has happened to you... One hardly knows where to begin.'_

_'Then don't,'__ she said__ into his chest. _

_He chose to ignore the hint__. 'Your capacity for brutality was certainly... unexpected.' Dr Lecter toyed with a strand of her hair. 'I did not intend – '_

_Starling cut him off, raising her head to look him in the eye. 'Then you should have been __more careful of what you released__.'_

_'Indeed,'__ he said with a slight smile__. 'That poor boy – that could have been you, once.'_

_She snorted. 'I was never a snivelling little wretch, and you know it.'_

_Dr Lecter laughed, and Starling pounced on the opportunity, seizing his head and pulling it down towards hers, capturing his lips with a savage kiss. He responded in kind, and the old thrill raced through her. She exulted in feeling his hands on her once more, his lips against hers, and the growl of pleasure that rose in his throat. _

_But no matter what he said, she knew that she must soon wake up, and he would be gone. The thought sullied the moment, and sensing it, he drew back._

_'Clarice... __don't__ give in,' he said. _

_She raised an eyebrow. 'You're as cryptic as ever.'_

_He gave her a smile, and she saw sadness there. 'You are who you __are,__ you do not have to be what they made you.' He hesitated slightly. 'What I made you.'_

_Starling favoured him with a long look, and he actually seemed uncomfortable. 'You did not make me, Hannibal. __You found me, remember? I am what I am, all right. What that is, I don't quite know. I think monumentally pissed off is about the closest I can come to describing it right now.'_

_Dr Lecter's amusement showed in his eyes. 'I'll say...' he drawled, and leant in to kiss her again._

_When they drew apart once more, he took her hand in his and touched his lips to it in a gentlemanly gesture of farewell. 'I must go now, Clarice.'_

_She held on to his hand. 'I'll see you again?'_

_'Of course,' he said soothingly. 'The proverbial bad penny, you know...'_

_Despite herself, she smiled. 'I love you,' she said._

_His eyes seemed to glow with extra intensity, and the tip of his tongue briefly touched his upper lip. 'I know,' he said, and winked._

She woke feeling refreshed, and sat up, almost expecting to see him there beside her. When he wasn't, Starling couldn't quite suppress the flush of disappointment that raced through her. Regardless, she had slept better than she had in days, and the memory of her dream remained crystal clear. She held it close, treasuring it. She knew she would see him again, after all, he would never lie to her. Although she hated the nights spent alone, the knowledge that she would not entirely be deprived of his presence made it all a little easier to bear.

The bad weather seemed to have abated, and the grey light of predawn cast a gloomy pall over the room, but the air was fresh from the storm. She felt alive, excited, more herself than she had been in days.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Sorry it took a while. Thanks to those who've reviewed so far. Your comments are much appreciated :-) So, on with the show...

**Disclaimer:** The characters you recognise are the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.

Daylight Dies, pt 7

Clarice Starling sat back on her heels and regarded the steel box with a warm glow of satisfaction. It was exactly where he had said it would be, long ago, when they had discussed what might happen if they were hunted. It reposed in a brick-lined hole three feet below the mouldering straw and hard packed dirt floor of the rickety outhouse. She hauled it out and knocked the caked earth off the top. It was locked, and she took the business end of a rusty claw hammer to the lock, hitting it repeatedly until the lock caved in and she felt the lid loosen. Wedging the claw end under the lip of the lid, Starling levered it open.

Her inner pessimist expected it to be empty, despite its obvious weight, so Starling was pleased to see that no-one had tampered with it at all in the years since Dr Lecter had hidden it here, a little safeguard against future woes. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash was a very healthy sum indeed. She did not know where it had come from, and she was long past caring. Once, she would have shied away from using money she suspected his victims may have supplied. Most of them were well off, and the money had been written off years ago. She had money of her own, in various accounts under various names, and she knew a few of his too. However, given her circumstances and the plans she had for some of this cash, she didn't think walking into a bank and withdrawing it was good idea.

Clarice shut the lid back down, and searched around the outhouse for something to cover the hole with. She found a piece of chipboard behind the old barbeque set and placed it over the hole, scuffing rotten straw and dirt over it. It was not an amazing job, but it would do until she had time to do it properly. It was a useful hiding place, perhaps it might remain so.

She took the box back to the farm cottage. The predawn light had given way to a sunny autumn morning. It was chilly, but she had allowed the fire to die down in the grate. It didn't seem sensible to keep it going and risk somebody noticing smoke issuing from a building that supposedly empty. She knew there were no neighbours for miles, but the road ran close down the front of the property, and all it needed was one observant local or, worse, a policeman.

The interior of the box was lined with sheet aluminium, and the money was sealed inside clear plastic bags. It was a neat job, done with the doctor's usual care and attention to detail. She spent the next couple of hours counting it and sorting it into piles on the threadbare rug.

Fifty thousand dollars, she wrapped back in a plastic bag and stuffed it into the mirrored interior of her empty thermos. This was for Barney. She had considered more, but on balance, her need was greater than his. If all went well, she would be out of the country soon. If it went badly, she may be pursued and might not have the chance to stop by a bank. She thought he would be content with the money, and more so with the fact that he would never see her again.

That thought gave Clarice pause. She didn't have many friends; in fact, in the whole wide world it was possible that she had only one. One who was willing to help her, and not betray her. Even then, she couldn't be entirely certain that he wouldn't sell her out for the right price. It was lonely thought and it preoccupied her for a moment. She had always been a self-sufficient person; able to do without human company, but now it was different. Before, there had been people there when she needed them. Then there had been Dr Lecter, and his company had been more than sufficient. Now, she was utterly alone. She had cut herself off from the common herd of humanity, by her actions and by the choices she had made. She couldn't go back.

Could she? As she gazed at the pile of notes on the floor, part of her knew that she could take this money and her accounts and – go. Go where, she wasn't quite sure. Italy, maybe, or France. She wouldn't mind visiting Prague either. She could vanish as surely as smoke on the wind, start a new life, be somebody else.

It was, for a moment, a tempting thought. But she knew she couldn't do it. Not yet, anyway. Did she really want to give up and find some grocery store manager for a husband, settle down and rot in mediocrity? Bring up three children, gossip with the other soccer moms and have dinner on the table by seven every evening? She allowed herself to picture it for a moment, and felt a chill creep down her spine. She simply couldn't do it. Besides, it had never been in her nature to give up, to drop the matter and walk away from the fight.

A cold smile crept across Starling's face. Not in her nature at all. They should have finished the job properly when they had the chance. Ardelia should have made sure of it. After all, it was Ardelia who knew her best.

As the morning wore on, Clarice made her preparations for the day's work. She changed out of her dirty shirt and washed in tepid water out of the jerry can. She hauled the sack of charcoal out of the back of her truck, and stashed it in the outhouse. Leaving Barney's money in the thermos under the passenger seat, she kept another thousand dollars out for certain purchases and hid the rest in a fireplace in one of the upstairs rooms. It would do for now, although she didn't intend to leave it there for long.

The drive in to Baltimore was easier today, although she had to detour around a works crew removing a fallen spruce from the road. By half past eleven, she was parked behind Maryland Misericordia with a good view of the staff entrance. A group of student nurses in starched uniforms loitered there, sipping coffee out of plastic cups and smoking cigarettes.

She constantly scanned the car park for any signs of suspicious activity. There was always the chance that Barney may have had a change of heart or an attack of conscience. A drab Ford with two men in the front caught her attention for a moment, until one got out and she saw he had his leg in plaster. He hopped off on crutches, heading round the corner to the outpatients entrance. The Ford pulled away and was lost in the stream of traffic on the busy street outside. _November Rain _came on the radio, and she hummed along, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel.

The nurses vanished inside, and were replaced by two doctors who gave the fastest demonstration of chain-smoking that Starling had seen for a long time, putting away four cigarettes each in just under five minutes, then they too disappeared inside.

At exactly two minutes to twelve, the door opened again and Barney came outside. She watched him for a moment. He carried a paper bag in one hand, and glanced around the car park. Then he checked his watch. Clarice decided it was time. She took the thermos full of money, pulled her baseball cap down over her eyes and exited the truck.

Barney saw her coming and withdrew slightly into the covered area by the door. It was the smoking corner, as evidenced by the multitude of crushed cigarette butts littering the dirty concrete. He looked her up and down, noting the thermos. She walked right up to him, exuding confidence and an utter right to be there. Having seen plenty of drug deals go down, Starling knew that looking furtive was the worst thing she could do in this kind of situation.

'All right?' she said.

'Yeah.' He proffered the greasy paper bag, glancing around warily. She suspected that it had once contained sandwiches. She took it, quickly feeling to make sure. There were vials inside.

'I brought you some coffee,' she said, casually and loudly enough so that anyone nearby would think nothing of it. His eyebrows shot up, but he took the flask.

Clarice risked a quick peek in the bag. Three vials, each full of liquid. 'Thank you, Barney,' she said. 'I won't forget this.'

He chuckled, startling her. 'I think I'm gonna try to,' he said dryly. She smiled at that, and tucked the bag inside her jacket.

'Good luck, Clarice,' he said.

She nodded, turned away from him and casually strolled to the truck. When she looked over at the door again, he had gone.

Starling was glad to leave the hospital. She had felt exposed, sat there in the Dodge, with someone inside knowing her identity. However, her business in Baltimore was not yet concluded. She found a shopping mall with a hardware store. It was busy, but not heaving. In the DIY shop, she picked up a basket from by the door, avoided the spotty customer assistant by ducking down the paint aisle when he made a beeline for her, and headed for the tools section.

This comprised tools for plumbing, carpentry, and electrics, with gardening further along. She bypassed plumbing, but paused by carpentry, her attention seized by the display of various types of saws on offer. A couple of them seemed almost small enough for her purpose. Then she saw the wire cutters next to the pliers amongst the electrician's tools.

'Can I help you ma'am?' a youthful voice said in her ear.

Clarice turned, and beheld the same spotty shop assistant she had avoided on her way in. He blinked, and took a step backwards, his smile fading slightly and his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Then she caught sight of the expression on her face, mirrored in the reflective metal of the shelf edge. She hadn't been aware of the wicked grin on her face at all. It turned into a genuine laugh, and she shook her head, smiling. 'No, I'm fine, thank you,' she said and reached past him, unhooking a pair of heavy duty wire cutters from their rack by his shoulder.

'Uh, okay,' he said as she passed him by. 'Uh, if you need anything...'

'I'll let you know,' she answered mechanically, eyes seeking the tape shelf. She was half aware of him checking her out as she walked away.

The duct tape, in black or grey, sat next to a bright display of electrical tape of various colours. She picked up a roll of the heavy duty tape so beloved of kidnappers and other criminals, and added it to her basket.

At the checkout the cashier didn't so much as raise a bored eyebrow at her purchases, slung them roughly in a plastic bag for her, and tossed the change back across the counter. Clarice did, for a moment, consider a word or two about politeness, then decided that she didn't really care. The young woman looked bored out of her skull, and that was punishment enough.

Upon leaving the shop, Clarice noticed something she hadn't seen when she'd come in. There was a small knife and hunting store three doors down, sandwiched between a dingy little record store and a busy shoe shop. A small boy and his father stood in front of it, admiring a display of traditional crossbows. Curious, she wandered closer and studied the shop window. Below the crossbows was a velvet-draped stand featuring a variety of expensive looking boxed knives.

The boy and his father walked away, and Starling moved up to the window to get a proper look. Amongst the buck knives, black-bladed military knives and diving knives on display was a dark wooden case, open to reveal a green velvet lining and three very expensive looking knives. She recognised them as specialised hunting knives, hafted in horn. One was a skinning knife, curved and wickedly sharp. Next to it, and very similar but almost straight was a flensing, or carving knife for cutting fine slices of meat. Beside that, and dwarfing it by comparison was a heavy bladed bone knife, used for the more brutal aspects of butchering. The price tag was three hundred dollars, and proclaimed that they were Sheffield steel imports.

She had nearly a thousand dollars in her pocket, and it was too much to resist. She suspected that showmanship was something else she had absorbed in her time with the doctor.

The store's owner, a skinny gentleman with a shaven head and three piercings through his left eyebrow was eager to make a killing on the knife set, and offered to throw in a buck knife worth fifty dollars for free. It seemed rather redundant to Starling, given that the buck knife is designed to have aspects of all three, but she took it anyway. She added a set of rustic outdoor cooking tools with polished walnut handles to the box of knives, and his smile couldn't have grown any wider.

When she left the narrow, dimly lit shop, her wallet was rather lighter than it had been, and she had added two large boxes to her load. However, her step was light and she had trouble reigning in her smile. Was this how the doctor had felt, she wondered, while making his preparations? The feeling of elation fizzed within her, and she almost felt giddy at the power of it. She was so eager to begin that she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. Tomorrow could not come fast enough, although there was a long and early drive ahead of her, and an undoubtedly tedious stakeout. She didn't care. It was all coming together, and she itched for the moment when she had him in front of her.


End file.
